Chicago, Satan's Sanctum

by L. O. Curon

Here, from noon hour of the day until midnight, come and go the “sporty” women, who have not yet reached the lower degree of a brothel, the “roomers,” “the cruisers” of the street, the so-called keepers of manicure parlors, baths and dressmaking establishments, all bent upon a “mash” in its broadest sense, or a “pick up” of any male greenhorn, or sport, who can be ensnared by their wiles. Maintaining a semblance of decorum, they pass the earlier hours of the evening in drinking with the “guests” and in flitting about from table to table, with which each place is abundantly supplied. The conversation is loud, and at times boisterous. Its subject matter is beyond repetition in polite circles. Lecherous glances, libidinous gestures, open invitations, characterize the behavior of the audience. Sometimes personal liberties are attempted, but invariably suppressed by the management. From the private rooms come sounds of hilarity, and the intermixture of words of protest, inducement and vulgarity. The withdrawals of couples are marked, and their early return and ruffled appearance suggest patronage of not distant “hotels,” where no questions are asked. Generally, as the midnight hour approaches, the crowd decreases, signs of intoxication increase, and the exodus to the all night resorts is about completed as that hour is struck.

When the downtown basement resorts close, the profitable work of the all night joints commences. The attendants in them are joined by squads from the more pretentious and less favored half-night competitors. These resorts, as a rule, are all equipped with private rooms, and many of them, in summer, have a so-called garden attached. Some have vaudeville performances to attract crowds, which end after the midnight hour. Many have a “Ladies’ Entrance,” but most visitors pass through the bar to the sitting room beyond. The so-called music of the cracked piano and strident male voices now commences, and the hat is passed around by the artists and performers, for contributions for payment for their services, the “house” paying nothing for such services, but permitting the artists to “work” the crowd. Boys of sixteen, and under, join in the gaieties as buck, wing and jig dancers, and also pass the hat. As the hours lengthen, as the liquor begins its effect, freedom of action enlarges, and restraint is removed. Those attitudes at table indicative of respectability are abandoned for others hinting at the widest license, or actually, which is not infrequently the case, illustrating that license, so far as familiarities of the person are concerned. The dance begins, with all its contortions of the body derived from the couche-couchee exhibitions of the World’s Fair times, enlarged upon by the grossness of the two-step waltz of the slums. Strolling bands of negro musicians, scraping the violin and strumming the guitar and mandolin, or the home orchestra, composed of these dusky minstrels, add their alleged harmonies to the occasion, and, with nasal expression, roll of coon songs in the popular rag time, with their intimations of free love, warmth of passion and disregard of moral teachings. At times, with assumed pathos and mock dignity they warble a sentimental song with some allusion to “Mother,” “Home,” or “Just Tell Them That You Saw Me.” The spree goes on, with fresh additions from the bagnios. Women with the most repulsive signs of prolonged dissipation, of advanced disease, with the upper parts of the body exposed, not perhaps more than is customary at a fashionable charity ball, join in with salacious abandon. These women, in the phrase of the Bard of Avon, belong to the class of the “custom shrunk,” of one of whom a Roman satirist wrote:

“* * * but now,
That life is flagging at the goal, and like
An unstrung lute, her limbs are out of tune,
She is become so lavish of her presence,
That being daily swallowed by men’s eyes
They surfeit at the sight.
She’s grown companion to the common streets—
Want her who will, a stater, a three obolo piece,
Or a mere draught of wine, brings her to hand!
Nay! place a silver stiver in your palm,
And, shocking tameness! She will stoop forthwith
To pick it out.”

As the morning hours draw nigh blear-eyed men and women in all stages of intoxication, creep to their holes to sleep away the day for a renewal of their orgies when darkness again falls.

In these all night saloons robberies and burglaries are planned, and hold-ups arranged for. To them young girls are enticed when homeward bound from summer gardens and midwinter balls. Plans are laid for their ruin through drink, and the excitement of an experience new to them, which hide from their view all danger signals. Women are beaten and stabbed in them. Here young men begin their careers of dissipation, of lechery, and, perhaps, of crime, amid surroundings so contrary to the examples of home life, that before they are aware of it, they have become hopelessly enamored of what is termed a sporting life.

The flippantly spoken word provokes a heated reply, a jealous woman, surcharged with drink, precipitates a squabble that swells into a free fight, a free fight brings an indiscriminate firing of revolvers, and the consequent death—the murder—of some of the rioters follows. Then, and not until then, do the police raid the place. For a few weeks it is kept under the ban, but gradually the law’s grip is relaxed, signs of the old life revive, and soon the same scenes made more joyous and boisterous at the “new opening” are again enacted, to run the same course until another felony is committed, and another temporary closing of the doors enforced.

That the all night saloon where such depravity is permitted to hold sway is a menace to the peace, the sobriety, and the safety of the community, is a self evident proposition.

A minister in one of his sermons said, “The police wink when you call their attention to the fact that hundreds of saloons are running wide open all night. It is after midnight that the majority of the crimes are committed, and yet these places are allowed to run after hours, and have the protection of the police.”

The beardless boy and the habitual drunkard are, alike, supplied with drink without question. The former is flattered by being called “a dead game sport,” and the latter tickled with the oft-bestowed title of “old sport.”

Many of these notorious dens are located in the midst of a forest of houses of ill fame. The depraved inmates of these houses, partly clad, are the most indecent visitors to the all night saloons. Perched upon the bar, or peering out from the private wine rooms, they shout their infamous language at the visitors, with invitations to indulgence in the most bestial of practices.